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Best Famous Sympathy Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sympathy poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sympathy poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sympathy poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sympathy poems.

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by | |

Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
   When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
   When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
   Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
   And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
   When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
   But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!


by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

To Eva

O FAIR and stately maid whose eyes 
Were kindled in the upper skies 
At the same torch that lighted mine; 
For so I must interpret still 
Thy sweet dominion o'er my will 5 
A sympathy divine.
Ah! let me blameless gaze upon Features that seem at heart my own; Nor fear those watchful sentinels Who charm the more their glance forbids 10 Chaste-glowing underneath their lids With fire that draws while it repels.


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Sympathy

" Love includes sympathy, but sympathy does not love.
" Ehsan Sehgal


More great poems below...

by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Soft hearts

"Unsympathy ful and stone hearts are the place of evils, angels only stay in the hearts that are soft and sympathy ful.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Advantage

"Never take advantage of anyone's love, trust, sincerity, sympathy, tolerant and weakness, nor underestimate anyone's way of thinking and action.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Sympathy

 If I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would
you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?
Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty
little puppy?"
Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call
me, and never let you feed me any more.
If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away? Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful wretch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night?" The go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will never let you take me in your arms again.


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Sympathy

 Therefore I dare reveal my private woe, 
The secret blots of my imperfect heart, 
Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert, 
Nor beautify nor hide.
For this I know, That even as I am, thou also art.
Thou past heroic forms unmoved shalt go, To pause and bide with me, to whisper low: "Not I alone am weak, not I apart Must suffer, struggle, conquer day by day.
Here is my very cross by strangers borne, Here is my bosom-sin wherefrom I pray Hourly deliverance--this my rose, my thorn.
This woman my soul's need can understand, Stretching o'er silent gulfs her sister hand.
"


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Sympathy

 I know what the caged bird feels, alas! 
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; 
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, 
And the river flows like a stream of glass; 
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, 
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- 
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing 
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; 
For he must fly back to his perch and cling 
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; 
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars 
And they pulse again with a keener sting-- 
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, 
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- 
When he beats his bars and he would be free; 
It is not a carol of joy or glee, 
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, 
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- 
I know why the caged bird sings!


by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXIX.

SONNET LXXIX.

L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo.

HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.

On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
To tell her of my past and present ache,
Which never in her life my heart did dare.
I first that glance so full of love declare
Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.
She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,
Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;
My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,
So to behold her weep with anger burns,
And freed from slumber to itself returns.
Macgregor.


by Henry David Thoreau | |

Let such pure hate still underprop

 "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.
" Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other's conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence.
We'll one another treat like gods, And all the faith we have In virtue and in truth, bestow On either, and suspicion leave To gods below.
Two solitary stars-- Unmeasured systems far Between us roll; But by our conscious light we are Determined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?-- Love can afford to wait; For it no hour's too late That witnesseth one duty's end, Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use, More than the tints of flowers; Only the independent guest Frequents its bowers, Inherits its bequest.
No speech, though kind, has it; But kinder silence doles Unto its mates; By night consoles, By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue? What hearest ear of ear? By the decrees of fate From year to year, Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns; No trivial bridge of words, Or arch of boldest span, Can leap the moat that girds The sincere man.
No show of bolts and bars Can keep the foeman out, Or 'scape his secret mine, Who entered with the doubt That drew the line.
No warder at the gate Can let the friendly in; But, like the sun, o'er all He will the castle win, And shine along the wall.
There's nothing in the world I know That can escape from love, For every depth it goes below, And every height above.
It waits, as waits the sky, Until the clouds go by, Yet shines serenely on With an eternal day, Alike when they are gone, And when they stay.
Implacable is Love-- Foes may be bought or teased From their hostile intent, But he goes unappeased Who is on kindness bent.


by Sir John Suckling | |

I prithee send me back my heart

 I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For thou hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O Love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe; I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she hath mine.


by Christina Rossetti | |

From “Later Life”

 VI
We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack: 
Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.
We see the things we do not yearn to see Around us: and what see we glancing back? Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the rack, Hopes that were never ours yet seem’d to be, For which we steer’d on life’s salt stormy sea Braving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.
If thus to look behind is all in vain, And all in vain to look to left or right, Why face we not our future once again, Launching with hardier hearts across the main, Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight, And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain? IX Star Sirius and the Pole Star dwell afar Beyond the drawings each of other’s strength: One blazes through the brief bright summer’s length Lavishing life-heat from a flaming car; While one unchangeable upon a throne Broods o’er the frozen heart of earth alone, Content to reign the bright particular star Of some who wander or of some who groan.
They own no drawings each of other’s strength, Nor vibrate in a visible sympathy, Nor veer along their courses each toward Yet are their orbits pitch’d in harmony Of one dear heaven, across whose depth and length Mayhap they talk together without speech.


by William Strode | |

On A Watch Made By A Blacksmith

 A Vulcan and a Venus seldom part.
A blacksmith never us'd to filinge art Beyond a lock and key, for Venus' sake Hath cut a watch soe small that sence will ake In searching every wire, and subtile sphere Which his industrious skill hath order'd theire: It scarce outswells a nut, and is soe light A Ladies eare might well indure the weight.
Twas for a Mistrisse: pitty not his owne, And yet not pitty when her worth is knowne, Or els his love that ownes her: Either's name Is carv'd within the plates: the witty frame Hath made their letters kiss for them, while they Have like the watch one pulse, one sympathy.


by Robert William Service | |

Divine Device

 Would it be loss or gain
To hapless human-kind
If we could feel no pain
Of body or of mind?
Would it be for our good
If we were calloused so,
And God in mercy should
End all our woe?

I wonder and I doubt:
It is my bright belief
We should be poor without
The gift of grief.
For suffering may be A blessing, not a bane, And though we sorrow we Should praise for Pain.
Aye, it's my brave belief That grateful we should be, Since in the heart of grief Is love and sympathy, We do not weep in vain, So let us kiss the rod, And see in purging Pain The Grace of God.


by Robert William Service | |

Toilet Seats

 While I am emulating Keats
My brother fabrics toilet seats,
The which, they say, are works of art,
Aesthetic features of the mart;
So exquisitely are they made
With plastic of a pastel shade,
Of topaz, ivory or rose,
Inviting to serene repose.
Rajahs I'm told have seats of gold,-- (They must, I fear, be very cold).
But Tom's have thermostatic heat, With sympathy your grace to greet.
Like silver they are neon lit, Making a halo as you sit: Then lo! they play with dulset tone A melody by Mendelssohn.
Oh were I lyrical as Yeats I would not sing of toilet seats, But rather serenade a star,-- Yet I must take things as they are.
For even kings must coyly own Them as essential as a throne: So as I tug the Muse's teats I envy Tom his toilet seats.


by Robert William Service | |

Sympathy

 My Muse is simple,--yet it's nice
To think you don't need to think twice
 On words I write.
I reckon I've a common touch And if you say I cuss too much I answer: 'Quite!' I envy not the poet's lot; He has something I haven't got, Alas, I know.
But I have something maybe he Would envy just a mite in me,-- I'm rather low.
For I am cast of common clay, And from a ditch I fought my way, And that is why The while the poet scans the skies, My gaze is grimly gutterwise, Earthy am I.
And yet I have a gift, perhaps Denied to proud poetic chaps Who scoff at me; I know the hearts of humble folk; I too have bowed beneath the yoke: So let my verse for them evoke Your sympathy.


by Robert William Service | |

Window Shopper

 I stood before a candy shop
Which with a Christmas radiance shone;
I saw my parents pass and stop
To grin at me and then go on.
The sweets were heaped in gleamy rows; On each I feasted - what a game! Against the glass with flatted nose, Gulping my spittle as it came; So still I stood, and stared and dreamed, Savouring sweetness with my eyes, Devouring dainties till it seemed My candy shop was paradise.
I had, I think, but five years old, And though three-score and ten have passed, I still recall the craintive cold, The grimy street, the gritty blast; And how I stared into that shop, Its gifts so near and yet so far, Of marzipan and toffee drop, Of chocolate and walnut bar; Imagining what I would buy Amid delights so rich and rare .
.
.
The glass was misted with my sigh: "If just one penny Pop could spare!" And then when I went home to tea Of bread and butter sparsely spread, Oh, how my parents twitted me: "You stood for full an hour," they said.
"We saw you as we passed again; Your eyes upon the sweets were glued; Your nose was flattened to the pane, Like someone hypnotized you stood.
" But when they laughed as at a joke, A bitterness I could not stem Within my little heart awoke.
.
.
.
Oh, I have long forgiven them; For though I know they did no own Pennies to spare, they might, it seems More understanding love have shown More sympathy for those vain dreams, Which make of me with wistful gaze God's Window Shopper all days.


by Robert William Service | |

The God Of Common-Sense

 My Daddy used to wallop me for every small offense:
"Its takes a hair-brush back," said he, "to teach kids common-sense.
" And still to-day I scarce can look a hair-brush in the face.
Without I want in sympathy to pat a tender place.
For Dad declared with unction: "Spare the brush and spoil the brat.
" The dear old man! What e'er his faults he never did do that; And though a score of years have gone since he departed hence, I still revere his deity, The God of Common-sense.
How often I have played the ass (Man's universal fate), Yet always I have saved myself before it was too late; How often tangled with a dame - you know how these things are, Yet always had the gumption not to carry on too far; Remembering that fancy skirts, however high they go, Are not to be stacked up against a bunch of hard-earned dough; And sentiment has little weight compared with pounds and pence, According to the gospel of the God of Common-sense.
Oh blessing on that old hair-brush my Daddy used to whack With such benign precision on the basement of my back.
Oh blessings on his wisdom, saying: "Son, don't play the fool, Let prudence be your counselor and reason be your rule.
Don't get romantic notions, always act with judgment calm, Poetical emotions ain't in practice worth a damn/ let solid comfort be your goal, self-interest your guide.
.
.
.
" Then just as if to emphasize, whack! whack! the brush he plied.
And so I often wonder if my luck is Providence, or just my humble tribute to the God of Common-sense.


by Robert William Service | |

My Picture

 I made a picture; all my heart
I put in it, and all I knew
Of canvas-cunning and of Art,
Of tenderness and passion true.
A worshipped Master came to see; Oh he was kind and gentle, too.
He studied it with sympathy, And sensed what I had sought to do.
Said he: "Your paint is fresh and fair, And I can praise it without cease; And yet a touch just here and there Would make of it a masterpiece.
" He took the brush from out my hand; He touched it here, he touched it there.
So well he seemed to understand, And momently it grew more fair.
Oh there was nothing I could say, And there was nothing I could do.
I thanked him, and he went his way, And then - I slashed my picture through.
For though his brush with soft caress Had made my daub a thing divine, Oh God! I wept with bitterness, .
.
.
It wasn't mine, it wasn't mine.


by Robert William Service | |

Romance

 In Paris on a morn of May
I sent a radio transalantic
To catch a steamer on the way,
But oh the postal fuss was frantic;
They sent me here, they sent me there,
They were so courteous yet so canny;
Then as I wilted in despair
A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny.
'Twas only juts a gentle pat, Yet oh what sympathy behind it! I don't let anyone do that, But somehow then I didn't mind it.
He seemed my worry to divine, With kindly smile, that foreign mannie, And as we stood in waiting line With tender touch he tapped my fanny.
It brought a ripple of romance Into that postal bureau dreary; He gave me such a smiling glance That somehow I felt gay and cheery.
For information on my case The postal folk searched nook and cranny; He gently tapped, with smiling face, His reassurance on my fanny.
So I'll go back to Tennessee, And they will ask: "How have you spent your Brief holiday in gay Paree?" But I'll not speak of my adventure.
Oh say I'm spectacled and grey, Oh say I'm sixty and a grannie - But say that morn of May A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny!


by Robert William Service | |

Noctambule

 Zut! it's two o'clock.
See! the lights are jumping.
Finish up your bock, Time we all were humping.
Waiters stack the chairs, Pile them on the tables; Let us to our lairs Underneath the gables.
Up the old Boul' Mich' Climb with steps erratic.
Steady .
.
.
how I wish I was in my attic! Full am I with cheer; In my heart the joy stirs; Couldn't be the beer, Must have been the oysters.
In obscene array Garbage cans spill over; How I wish that they Smelled as sweet as clover! Charing women wait; Cafes drop their shutters; Rats perambulate Up and down the gutters.
Down the darkened street Market carts are creeping; Horse with wary feet, Red-faced driver sleeping.
Loads of vivid greens, Carrots, leeks, potatoes, Cabbages and beans, Turnips and tomatoes.
Pair of dapper chaps, Cigarettes and sashes, Stare at me, perhaps Desperate Apachès.
"Needn't bother me, Jolly well you know it; Parceque je suis Quartier Latin poet.
"Give you villanelles, Madrigals and lyrics; Ballades and rondels, Odes and panegyrics.
Poet pinched and poor, Pricked by cold and hunger; Trouble's troubadour, Misery's balladmonger.
" Think how queer it is! Every move I'm making, Cosmic gravity's Center I am shaking; Oh, how droll to feel (As I now am feeling), Even as I reel, All the world is reeling.
Reeling too the stars, Neptune and Uranus, Jupiter and Mars, Mercury and Venus; Suns and moons with me, As I'm homeward straying, All in sympathy Swaying, swaying, swaying.
Lord! I've got a head.
Well, it's not surprising.
I must gain my bed Ere the sun be rising; When the merry lark In the sky is soaring, I'll refuse to hark, I'll be snoring, snoring.
Strike a sulphur match .
.
.
Ha! at last my garret.
Fumble at the latch, Close the door and bar it.
Bed, you graciously Wait, despite my scorning .
.
.
So, bibaciously Mad old world, good morning.


by Robert William Service | |

The Macaronis

 Italian people peaceful are,--
 Let it be to their credit.
They mostly fail to win a war, --Oh they themselves have said it.
"Allergic we to lethal guns And military might: We love our homes and little ones, And loath to fight.
" But Teutons are a warrior race Who seek the sword to rattle; And in the sun they claim a place, Even at price of battle.
The prestige of a uniform Is sacred in their sight; They deem that they are soldiers born And might is right.
And so I love Italians though Their fighting powers are petty; My heart with sympathy doth go To eaters of spaghetti.
And if the choice were left to me, I know beyond a doubt A hundred times I'd rather be A Dago than a Kraut.


by Robert William Service | |

My Trinity

 For all good friends who care to read,
here let me lyre my living creed .
.
.
One: you may deem me Pacifist, For I've no sympathy with strife.
Like hell I hate the iron fist, And shun the battle-ground of life.
The hope of peace is dear to me, And I to Christian faith belong, Holding that breath should sacred be, And War is always wrong.
Two: Universalist am I And dream a world that's frontier free, With common tongue and common tie, Uncurst by nationality; Where colour, creed and class are one, And lowly folk are lifted high; Where every breed beneath the sun Is equal in God's eye.
Three: you may call me Naturist, For green glade is my quiet quest; The path of progress I have missed, And shun the city's sore unrest.
A world that's super-civilized Is one of worry, want and woe; In leafy lore let me be wised And back to Nature go.
Well, though you may but half agree, Behold my trusty Trinity


by Robert William Service | |

Detachment

 As I go forth from fair to mart
With racket ringing,
Who would divine that in my heart
Mad larks are singing.
As I sweet sympathy express, Lest I should pain them, The money-mongers cannot guess How I disdain them.
As I sit at some silly tea And flirt and flatter How I abhor society And female chatter.
As I with wonderment survey Their peacock dresses, My mind is wafted far away To wildernesses.
As I sit in some raucous pub, Taboo to women, And treat myself to greasy grub I feel quite human.
Yet there I dream, despite the din, Of God's green spaces, And sweetly dwell the peace within Of sylvan graces.
And so I wear my daily mask Of pleasant seeming, And nobody takes me to task For distant dreaming; A happy hypocrite am I Of ambiance inner, Who smiling make the same reply To saint and sinner.


by Robert William Service | |

The Buyers

 Father drank himself to death,--
 Quite enjoyed it.
Urged to draw a sober breath He'd avoid it.
'Save your sympathy,' said Dad; 'Never sought it.
Hob-nail liver, gay and glad, Sure,--I bought it.
' Uncle made a heap of dough, Ponies playing.
'Easy come and easy go,' Was his saying.
Though he died in poverty Fit he thought it, Grinning with philosophy: 'Guess I bought it.
' Auntie took the way of sin, Seeking pleasure; Lovers came, her heart to win, Bringing treasure.
Sickness smote,--with lips that bled Brave she fought it; Smiling on her dying bed: 'Dears, I bought it.
' My decades of life are run, Eight precisely; Yet I've lost a lot of fun Living wisely.
Too much piety don't pay, Time has taught it; Hadn't guts to go astray; Life's a bloody bore today,-- Well, I've bought it.